


Whistle

by TeaCub90



Series: be good to the lad that loves you true [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Have I made you unhappy?’





	Whistle

**Author's Note:**

> Little ficlet after a small absence from this fandom. All the fluff and h/c. As per, Sherlock is not mine.

* * *

‘I don’t want to… make you unhappy,’ John stands in the middle of the lounge, playing with the sleeves of his jumper – his old jumper, big, far too big, like a child who’s standing before their parent, trying to apologise for breaking something irreplaceable. ‘Just…have I done that?’ He raises his head, squints at Sherlock through the low sunlight filtering in through the windows, newly replaced; utterly helpless. ‘Have I made you unhappy?’

Sherlock blinks over his book. Truth be told, he thought John was just getting up to make a cup of tea, so, um. This is a little awkward and…somewhat unexpected, actually.

John looks anxious; his face has that awkward, embarrassed mask he wears when things aren’t right; his left hand is clenched over his right one; his _shaking_ right one. They’re _both_ shaking.

It’s worrying.

‘I…’ John grits his teeth into the silence, over the words on his tongue, all that he wants to say but can’t seem to get out. ‘I don’t know how to fix this, really.’ He shakes his head, looks away, at the walls, the ceiling; anywhere but at Sherlock. ‘I don’t know how to fix any of this.’

He wets his lips, taps the coffee-table beside his chair; the chair he’s refusing to sit in, hasn’t sat in, in fact, since he arrived – the sofa, yes, the office chair by the window, even the chairs in the kitchen.

But _his_ chair, open and inviting in the middle of the room? No.

 _Of course,_ Sherlock thinks, all the puzzle pieces slotting into place just so; his silence, however, goes on too long; John swallows, takes his lack of response as the only reply he needs, spins on his heel and storms – _not_ out of the flat, as it turns out, but into the kitchen instead. Sherlock sits for a moment, listens to the tap rushing, the click of the kettle as its shoved back into its cradle. The bristling water seems to match the mood, or John’s at least.

Well, then.

John is standing with his arms braced against the worktop; stretching out, head bowed. His shoulders are rising and falling with the sound of his breathing; trying to breathe, trying to do all that Ella’s told him; to try and fix this, make himself right. Trying, _dammit,_ to get himself together.

Sherlock reaches out; puts a hand on John’s back, his palm splayed out and when John straightens up at the touch, a resigned, sad sigh on his lips, Sherlock moves forwards and envelopes him from behind, wrapping both arms around his shoulders.

‘Oh…’ John blinks, his hand falling to Sherlock’s arm, his wrist; isn’t pushing him away but…wasn’t expecting this, either _. ‘Sherlock.’_

He’s not angry. He’s many things right now; startled, clearly – surprised, _definitely;_ on the cusp of arguing, _maybe,_ saying something ridiculous along the lines of, _no, no, don’t do that, I don’t deserve it –_ and there’s a split second of stiffness between them, like the thinnest board someone’s placed between their bodies, when perhaps he might reject this, might stumble away, might _leave_ – but then his hand relaxes on Sherlock’s arm and he stays.

‘Not good?’ Sherlock asks, because it seems polite to double-check and John chuffs, warm breath and shy smile tentatively crooking up one corner of his mouth.

‘No, no, it’s…fine.’ He lets his thumb rub Sherlock’s wrist, because it _is,_ because it’s been a while since – since _this_ , since _anything,_ since that first, remarkable hug right after Mary. Feels _good,_ if he’s honest, to have a warm, safe, secure body settled against his, keeping him upright. Calming him. 

He breathes out, their hands rising together under his diaphragm as he inhales-exhales, tries one more time for luck. Rubs Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb and presses their heads together a little, Sherlock’s forehead against his temple, closes his eyes in the loose embrace. Just like Sherlock to show and not tell, he thinks affectionately; ruefully.

He truly _doesn’t_ deserve this: he believes that right down to his bones, but Sherlock stands steadily against him anyway, anchors him; stops him from going off and doing something phenomenally stupid like getting himself drunk, or shoving everybody away in a fit of incandescent rage, or letting himself be buttered up by strange, pretty women on buses when past experience _really_ should have taught him better.

Or hitting the people who love him the most. 

‘Go and pick up Rosie,’ Sherlock rumbles finally, gentle. ‘I’ll pop around to Tesco. We’ll have spaghetti bolognaise tonight.’

John swallows, _hard;_ chuffs; raises his free hand to wipe at suddenly prickling eyes, hurting with it, unable to keep the sudden, stupid, frankly massive grin off his face. _Spaghetti._ _Oh, **Sherlock.**_

‘Okay,’ he manages, wants to kick himself for the hoarse way those two syllables fall off his tongue but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem fazed that John can’t find the words right then; simply lets him loose, but stays close.

‘I’ll just get my wallet,’ he smiles; winks at him, nods at the kettle, shaking with steam. ‘We’ll save the tea for later.’

John nods; feels a tidal wave of _something_ fill him up from the inside at the sight of Sherlock’s eyes, crinkled at the corners, his mouth fulsome with that frankly lovely smile he gives whenever he is truly contented in the moment, and which John has missed. Sherlock doesn’t smile enough – perhaps hasn’t had cause to, which is frankly unfair – and John resolves, right then and there, to try and change that.

It doesn’t solve everything, he knows; doesn’t wipe the slate clean or make the darkness disappear or magically conjure things correct, or even completely soothe the storm in his head that he knows Sherlock is trying to help quieten and that he knows will probably rise up again sooner or later – fresh uncertainties, fresh doubts, fresh guilt.

But for now, there’s the promise of a warm, shared meal and neither of them spending the night alone, and perhaps that means he’s doing _something_ right.

*

**Author's Note:**

> 'But if you come to a road where danger  
> Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share  
> Be good to the lad who loves you true  
> And the soul that was born to die for you,  
> And whistle and I'll be there.'  
> \- A.E. Housman, 'Shake Hands.'


End file.
